Tyler Fugazzie

Walking down a street I walk down every day, I notice a thin, whipped-top tree waving at the block like a green candletip. I can’t believe I leave this town in less than a week. All the leaves are changing and producing beautiful shocks of orange, red, yellow, green. Another tree farther down the street holds hibernating butterflies. Orange-red, the color of the morrow’s morning marrow. One of these days I won’t notice anything new. That’s when I’ll rip the eyeballs out of my skull and feed the gooey orbs to a seagull.

I can’t believe I leave in less than a week. I can’t believe there are butterflies that actually hibernate. You’d think they get their lifetime of rest as they nest inside their cocoons, waiting to transform from mushy creatures of crawling into creatures of delicate flight. We use this transformation as a metaphor for some of our own forms of change. Like when we become new shapes or move into new spaces. I’m struggling to figure out the meaning behind these hibernating butterflies.